University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

SIDNEY  HOWARD  COLLECTION 

Gift  of 

The  Family  of  Sidney  Howard 


KING  COLE 


By 
John  Masefield 

Rosas 
Gallipoli 
Right  Royal 
The  Faithful 
Selected  Poems 
Lost  Endeavour 
A  Mainsail  Haul 
Captain  Magaret 
Reynard  the  Fox 
The  Daffodil  Fields 
The  Old  Front  Line 
Multitude  and  Solitude 
Collected  Poems  and  Plays 
Salt  Water  Poems  and  Ballads 
Good  Friday  and  Other  Poems 
The  Tragedy  of  Pompey  the  Great 
Philip  the  King  and  Other  Poems 
The  Tragedy  of  Nan  and  Other  Poems 
Lollingdon  Downs  and  Other  Poems 
The  Story  of  a  Round-House  and  Other  Poems 
The  Locked  Chest;  and  The  Sweeps  of  Ninety-eight 
The  Everlasting  Mercy  and  the  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street 
/ 


KING    COLE 


BY 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 

WITH    DRAWINGS   IN   BLACK  AND   WHITE 

BY 

JUDITH  MASEFIELD 


J^eto  |9orfe 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1921 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1 92 1, 

By  JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  192 1. 


To 
My  Wife 


KING  COLE 


King  Cole  was  King  before  the  troubles  came, 
The  land  was  happy  while  he  held  the  helm, 
The  valley-land  from  Condicote  to  Thame, 
Watered  by  Thames  and  green  with  many  an  elm. 
For  many  a  year  he  governed  well  his  realm, 
So  well-beloved,  that,  when  at  last  he  died, 
It  was  bereavement  to  the  countryside. 


So  good,  so  well-beloved,  had  he  been 

In  life,  that  when  he  reached  the  judging-place 

(There  where  the  scales  are  even,  the  sword  keen), 


IO  KINGCOLE 


The  Acquitting  Judges  granted  him  a  grace, 
Aught  he  might  choose,  red,  black,  from  king  to 

ace, 
Beneath  the  bright  arch  of  the  heaven's  span; 
He  chose,  to  wander  earth,  the  friend  of  man. 

So,  since  that  time,  he  wanders  shore  and  shire, 

An  old,  poor,  wandering  man,  with  glittering  eyes 

Helping  distressful  folk  to  their  desire 

By  power  of  spirit  that  within  him  lies. 

Gentle  he  is,  and  quiet,  and  most  wise, 

He  wears  a  ragged  grey,  he  sings  sweet-  words, 

And  where  he  walks  there  flutter  little  birds. 

And  when  the  planets  glow  as  dusk  begins 

He  pipes  a  wooden  flute  to  music  old. 

Men  hear  him  on  the  downs,  in  lonely  inns, 

In  valley  woods,  or  up  the  Chiltern  wold; 

His  piping  feeds  the  starved  and  warms  the  cold, 

It  gives  the  beaten  courage;  to  the  lost 

It  brings  back  faith,  that  lodestar  of  the  ghost. 


KING     COLE  II 


And  most  he  haunts  the  beech-tree-pasturing  chalk, 
The  Downs  and  Chilterns  with  the  Thames  between. 
There  still  the  Berkshire  shepherds  see  him  walk, 
Searching  the  unhelped  woe  with  instinct  keen, 
His  old  hat  stuck  with  never-withering  green, 
His  flute  in  poke,  and  little  singings  sweet 
Coming  from  birds  that  flutter  at  his  feet. 

Not  long  ago  a  circus  wandered  there, 

Where   good    King   Cole   most   haunts    the    public 

way, 
Coming  from  Reading  for  St.  Giles's  Fair 
Through  rain  unceasing  since  Augustine's  Day; 
The  horses  spent,  the  waggons  splashed  with  clay, 
The  men  with  heads  bowed  to  the  wester  roaring, 
Heaving  the  van-wheels  up  the  hill  at  Goring. 

Wearily  plodding  up  the  hill  they  went, 
Broken  by  bitter  weather  and  the  luck, 
Six  vans,  and  one  long  waggon  with  the  tent, 
And  piebald  horses  following  in  the  muck, 


12  KINGCOLE 


Dragging  their  tired  hooves  out  with  a  suck, 
And  heaving  on,  like  some  defeated  tribe 
Bound  for  Despair  with  Death  upon  their  kibe. 

All  through  the  morn  the  circus  floundered  thus, 
The  nooning  found  them  at  the  Crossing  Roads, 
Stopped  by  an  axle  splitting  in  its  truss. 
The  horses  drooped  and  stared  before  their  loads. 
Dark  with  the  wet  they  were,  and  cold  as  toads. 
The  men  were  busy  with  the  foundered  van, 
The  showman  stood  apart,  a  beaten  man. 

He  did  not  heed  the  dripping  of  the  rain, 
Nor  the  wood's  roaring,  nor  the  blotted  hill, 
He  stood  apart  and  bit  upon  his  pain, 
Biting  the  bitter  meal  with  bitter  will. 
Focussed  upon  himself,  he  stood,  stock  still, 
Staring  unseeing,  while  his  mind  repeated, 
"This  is  the  end;  I'm  ruined;  I'm  defeated." 

From  time  to  time  a  haggard  woman's  face 
Peered  at  him  from  a  van,  and  then  withdrew; 


Within  the  cowboy's  van  the  rat-eyed  wife, 
Her  reddish  hair  in  papers  twisted  close, 
Turned  wet  potatoes  round  against  the  knife, 
And  in  a  bucket  dropped  the  peetid  Oes. 


KING    COLE  15 


Seeds  from  the  hayrack  blew  about  the  place, 
The  smoke  out  of  the  waggon  chimneys  blew, 
From  wicker  creel  the  skinny  cockerel  crew. 
The  men  who  set  the  floundered  axle  straight 
Glanced  at  their  chief,  and  each  man  nudged  his 
mate. 

And  one,  the  second  clown,  a  snub-nosed  youth, 

Fair-haired,  with  broken  teeth,  discoloured  black, 

Muttered,  "He  looks  a  treat,  and  that's  the  truth. 

I've  had  enough:  I've  given  him  the  sack." 

He  took  his  wrench,  arose,  and  stretched  his  back, 

Swore  at  a  piebald  pony  trying  to  bite, 

And  rolled  a  cigarette  and  begged  a  light. 

Within,  the  second's  wife,  who  leaped  the  hoops, 
Nursed  sour  twins,  her  son  and  jealousy, 
Thinking  of  love,  in  luckier,  happier  troupes 
Known  on  the  roads  in  summers  now  gone  by 
Before  her  husband  had  a  roving  eye, 
Before  the  rat-eyed  baggage  with  red  hair 
Came  to  do  tight  rope  and  make  trouble  there. 


l6  KINGCOLE 


Beside  the  vans,  the  clown,  old  Circus  John, 
Growled  to  the  juggler  as  he  sucked  his  briar, 
"How  all  the  marrow  of  a  show  was  gone 
Since  women  came,  to  sing  and  walk  the  wire, 
Killing  the  clown  his  act  for  half  his  hire, 
Killing  the  circus  trade:  because,"  said  he, 
"Horses  and  us  are  what  men  want  to  see." 

The  juggler  was  a  young  man  shaven-clean, 

Even  in  the  mud  his  dainty  way  he  had, 

Red-cheeked,  with  eyes  like  boxer's,  quick  and  keen, 

A  jockey-looking  youth  with  legs  besprad, 

Humming  in  baritone  a  ditty  sad, 

And  tapping  on  his  teeth  his  finger-nails, 

The  while  the  clown  suckt  pipe  and  spat  his  tales. 

Molly,  the  singer,  watched  him  wearily 

With  big  black  eyes  that  love  had  brimmed  with  tears, 

Her  mop  of  short  cut  hair  was  blown  awry, 

Her  firm  mouth  shewed  her  wiser  than  her  years. 

She  stroked  a  piebald  horse  and  pulled  his  ears, 


KINGCOLE  17 


And  kissed  his  muzzle,  while  her  eyes  betrayed 
This,  that  she  loved  the  juggler,  not  the  jade. 

And  growling  in  a  group  the  music  stood 

Sucking  short  pipes,  their  backs  against  the  rain, 

Plotting  rebellion  in  a  bitter  mood, 

"A  shilling  more,  or  never  play  again." 

Their  old  great  coats  were  foul  with  many  a  stain, 

Weather  and  living  rough  had  stamped  their  faces, 

They  were  cast  clerks,  old  sailors,  old  hard  cases. 

Within  the  cowboy's  van  the  rat-eyed  wife, 
Her  reddish  hair  in  papers  twisted  close, 
Turned  wet  potatoes  round  against  the  knife, 
And  in  a  bucket  dropped  the  peeled  Oes. 
Her  little  girl  was  howling  from  her  blows, 
The  cowboy  smoked  and  with  a  spanner  whackt 
The  metal  target  of  his  shooting  act. 

And  in  another  van  more  children  cried 
From  being  beaten  or  for  being  chid 


KING     COLE 


By  fathers  cross  or  mothers  haggard-eyed, 
Made  savage  by  the  fortunes  that  betide. 
The  rain  dripped  from  the  waggons:  the  drops  glid 
Along  the  pony's  flanks;  the  thick  boots  stamped 
The  running    muck    for    warmth,  and    hope    was 
damped. 

Yet  all  of  that  small  troupe  in  misery  stuck, 
Were  there  by  virtue  of  their  nature's  choosing 
To  be  themselves  and  take  the  season's  luck, 
Counting  the  being  artists  worth  the  bruising. 
To  be  themselves,  as  artists,  even  if  losing 
Wealth,  comfort,  health,  in  doing  as  they  chose, 
Alone  of  all  life's  ways  brought  peace  to  those. 

So  there  below  the  forlorn  woods,  they  grumbled, 
Stamping  for  warmth  and  shaking  off  the  rain. 
Under  the  foundered  van  the  tinkers  fumbled, 
Fishing  the  splitted  truss  with  wedge  and  chain. 
Soon,  all  was  done,  the  van  could  go  again, 


KING    COLE  19 


Men    cracked    their   whips,    the   horses'    shoulders 

forged 
Up  to  the  collar  while  the  mud  disgorged. 

So  with  a  jangling  of  their  chains  they  went, 
Lean  horses,  swaying  vans  and  creaking  wheels, 
Bright  raindrops  tilting  off  the  van  roof  pent 
And  reedy  cockerels  crying  in  the  creels, 
Smoke  driving  down,  men's  shouts  and  children's 

squeals, 
Whips  cracking,  and  the  hayrack  sheddings  blowing; 
The  Showman  stood  aside  to  watch  them  going. 

What  with  the  rain  and  misery  making  mad, 
The  Showman  never  saw  a  stranger  come 
Till  there  he  stood,  a  stranger  roughly  clad 
In  ragged  grey  of  woollen  spun  at  home. 
Green  sprigs  were  in  his  hat,  and  other  some 
Stuck  in  his  coat;  he  bore  a  wooden  flute, 
And  redbreasts  hopped  and  carolled  at  his  foot. 

It  was  King  Cole,  who  smiled  and  spoke  to  him. 


20  KING     COLE 

King  Cole:  The  mend  will  hold  until  you  reach 

a  wright. 

Where  do  you  play? 
The  Showman:  In  Wallingford  to-night. 

King  Cole:  There  are  great  doings  there. 

The  Showman:  I  know  of  none. 

King  Cole:  The    Prince    will    lay    the    Hall's 

foundation  stone 

This  afternoon:  he  and  the  Queen 

are  there. 
The  Showman:  Lord,  keep   this  showman  patient, 

lest  he  swear. 
King  Cole:         Why  should  you  swear?    Be  glad; 

your  town  is  filled. 
The  Showman:  What  use  are  crowds  to  me  with 

business  killed? 
King  Cole:  I   see  no  cause  for  business  to  be 

crosst. 
The  Showman:  Counter-attractions,  man,  at  public 

cost. 


KING     COLE  21 


Fireworks,    dancing,    bonfires,    sol- 
diers, speeches. 

In    all    my    tour    along    the   river's 
reaches 

Fve  had  ill-luck:    IVe  clashed  with 
public  feasts. 

At  Wycombe  fair,  we  met  perform- 
ing beasts, 

At  Henley,  waxworks,  and  at  Maid- 
enhead 

The  Psyche  woman  talking  with  the 
dead. 

At  Bray,  we  met  the  rain,  at  Read- 
ing, flood, 

At  Pangbourne,  politics,  at  Goring, 
mud. 

Now  here,  at  Wallingford,  the  Royal 
Pair. 

Counter-attraction     killing     every- 
where, 


22  KING     COLE 


Killing    a    circus   dead:     God  give 

me  peace; 

If  this  be  living,  death  will  be  release. 

By  God,  it  brims  the  cup;    it  fills 

the  can. 

What  trade  are  you? 
King  Cole:  I  am  a  wandering  man. 

The  Showman:  You  mean,  a  tramp  who  flutes  for 

bread  and  pence? 
King  Cole:  I  come,  and  flute,  and  then  I  wander 

thence. 
The  Showman:  Quicksilver  Tom,  who  couldn't  keep 

his  place. 
King  Cole:  My  race  being  run,  I  love  to  watch 

the  race. 
The  Showman:  You  ought  to  seek  your  rest. 
King  Cole:  My  rest  is  this, 

The  world  of  men,  wherever  trouble  is. 
The  Showman:  If  trouble  rests  you,  God!  your  life 

is  rest. 


KING    COLE  23 


King  Cole:  Even   the  sun  keeps  moving,  east 

to  west. 
The  Showman:  Little  he  gets  by  moving;  less  than  I. 
King  Cole:         He  sees  the  great  green  world  go 

floating  by. 
The  Showman:  A  sorry  sight  to  see,  when  all  is  said. 

Why  don't  you  set  to  work? 
King  Cole:  I  have  no  trade. 

The  Showman:  Where  is  your  home? 
King  Cole:  All  gone,  a  long  time  past. 

The  Showman:  Your  children  then? 
King  Cole:  All  dead,  sir,  even  the  last. 

I  am  a  lonely  man;  no  kith  nor  kin. 
The  Showman:  There  is  no  joy  in  life  when  deaths 

begin, 

I  know  it,  I.     How  long  is't  since 

you  ate? 
King  Cole:  It  was  so  long  ago  that  I   forget. 

The  Showman:  The  proverb  says  a  man  can  always 

find 


24  KING     COLE 

One  sorrier  than  himself  in  state  and 

mind. 

Tore  George,  it's  true.    Well,  come, 

then,  to  the  van. 

Jane,  can  you  find  a  meal  for  this 

poor  man? 

"  Yes,"  said  his  wife.    "Thank  God,  we  still  are  able 
To  help  a  friend;  come  in,  and  sit  to  table." 
"Come,"  said  her  man,  "I'll  help  you  up  aboard, 
Til  save  your  legs  as  far  as  Wallingford." 

They  climbed  aboard  and  sat;  the  woman  spread 
Food  for  King  Cole,  and  watched  him  as  he  fed. 
Tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks  and  much  she  sighed. 
"My  son,"  she  said,  "like  you,  is  wandering  wide, 
I  know  not  where;  a  beggar  in  the  street, 
(For  all  I  know)  without  a  crust  to  eat. 
He  never  could  abide  the  circus  life." 


They  climbed  aboard  and  sat;  the  woman  spread 
Food  for  King  CoIey  and  watched  him  as  he  fed. 


KING     COLE  27 


The  Showman:  It  was  my  fault,  I  always  tell  my 

wife 

I  put  too  great  constraint  upon  his 

will; 

Things  would  be  changed  if  he  were 

with  us  still. 

I  ought  not  to  have  forced  him  to 

the  trade. 
King  Cole:  "A  forced  thing  finds  a  vent,"  my 

father  said; 

And  yet  a  quickening  tells  me  that 

your  son 

Is  not  far  from  you  now;   for  I  am 

one 

Who  feels  these  things,  like  comfort 

in  the  heart. 

The  couple  watched  King  Cole  and  shrank  apart, 
For  brightness  covered  him  with  glittering. 
"Tell  me  your  present  troubles,"  said  the  King, 
"For  you  are  worn.    What  sorrow  makes  you  sad?" 


28  KING    COLE 

The  Showman:  Why,  nothing,  sir,  except  that  times 
are  bad, 

Rain   all   the   season   through,   and 
empty  tents, 

And   nothing   earned   for   stock   or 
winter  rents. 

My  wife  there,  ill,  poor  soul,  from 
very  grief, 

And  now  no  hope  nor  prospect  of 
relief; 

The  season's  done,  and  we're  as  we 
began. 

Now  one  can   bear  one's   troubles, 

being  a  man, 

But  what  I  cannot  bear  is  loss  of 

friends. 

This   troupe  will  scatter  when   the 

season  ends: 


KINGCOLE  29 


My  clown  is  going,  and  the  Tricksey 

Three 

Who  juggle  and  do  turns,  have  split 

with  me; 

And  now,  to-day,  my  wife's  too  ill 

to  dance, 

And  all  my  music  ask  for  an  advance. 

There  must  be  poison  in  a  man's 

distress 

That  makes  him  mad  and  people 

like  him  less. 

Well,  men  are  men.     But  what  I 
cannot  bear 

Is  my  poor  Bet,  my  piebald  Talking 
Mare, 

Gone  curby  in  her  hocks  from  stand- 
ing up. 

That's  the  last  drop  that  overfills 
the  cup. 


30  KING     COLE 


My  Bet's  been  like  a  Christian 
friend  for  years. 

King  Cole:         Now  courage,  friend,  no  good  can 
come  from  tears. 

I  know  a  treatment  for  a  curby  hock 
Good  both  for  inward  sprain  or 
outward  knock. 

Here's  the  receipt;  it's  sure  as 
flowers  in  spring; 

A  certain  cure,  the  Ointment  of  the 
King. 

That  cures  your  mare;  your  troubles 

Time  will  right; 

A  man's  ill-fortune  passes  like  the 

night. 

Times  are  already  mending  at  their 

worst; 

Think  of  Spent   Simmy  when   his 

roof-beam  burst. 


Ml      jS 

It 

p 

'flZi*4  ¥m 

tfWa 

rf  i                 /xA  a 

tgjLli 

WS^mMui 

MM 

"nJC^Cm.  1  v^^ 

Well,  men  are  men.     But  what  I  cannot  bear 
Is  my  poor  Bet,  my  piebald  Talking  Mare, 
Gone  curby  in  her  hocks  from  standing  up. 
That's  the  last  drop  that  overfills  the  cup. 
My  Bet's  been  like  a  Christian  friend  for  years. 


KINGCOLE  33 


His  ruined  roof  fell  on  him  in  a  rain 
Of  hidden  gold  that  built  it  up  again. 
So,  courage,  and  believe  God's  provi- 
dence. 

Lo,  here,  the  city  shining  like  new 
pence, 

To  welcome  you;  the  Prince  is 
lodging  there. 

Lo,  you,  the  banners  flying  like  a 
fair. 

Your  circus  will  be  crowded  twenty 
deep. 

This  city  is  a  field  for  you  to  reap, 
For  thousands  must  have  come  to 
see  the  Prince, 

And  all  are  here,  all  wanting  fun. 
And  since 

The  grass  was  green,  all  men  have 
loved  a  show. 
Success  is  here,  so  let  your  trouble  go. 


34  KING    COLE 


The  Showman:  Well,   blessings   on   your   heart   for 

speaking  so; 

It  may  be  that  the  tide  will  turn 

at  last. 

But  royal  tours  have  crossed  me  in 

the  past 

And  killed  my  show,  and  maybe  will 

again. 

One  hopes  for  little  after  months  of 

rain, 

And  the  little  that  one  hopes  one 

does  not  get. 
The  Wife:  Look,    Will,    the    city    gates    with 

sentries  set. 
The  Showman:   It  looks  to  me  as  if  the  road  were 

barred. 
King  Cole:  They  are  some  soldiers  of  the  body- 

guard. 

I  hope,  the  heralds  of  your  fortune's 

change. 


KING    COLE  35 


"Now  take  this  frowsy  circus  off  the  range," 
The  soldiers  at  the  city  entrance  cried; 
"Keep  clear  the  town,  you  cannot  pass  inside, 
The  Prince  is  here,  with  other  things  to  do 
Than  stare  at  gangs  of  strollers  such  as  you." 

The  Showman:   But  I  am  billed  to  play  here;    and 

must  play. 
The  Soldiers:      No  must  at  all.     You  cannot  play 

to-day, 

Nor   pitch    your    tents   within    the 

city  bound. 
The  Showman:  Where  can  I,  then  ? 
The  Soldiers:  Go,  find  some  other  ground. 

A  Policeman:     Pass    through    the   city.     You   can 

pitch  and  play 

One  mile  beyond  it,  after  five  to-day. 
The  Showman:  One  mile  beyond,  what  use  is  that 

to  me? 
A  Policeman:     Those  are  the  rules,  here  printed, 

you  can  see. 


36  KINGCOLE 

The  Showman:   But  let  me  see  the  Mayor,  to  make 

sure. 
The  Soldiers:      These    are    his   printed   orders,    all 

secure. 

Pass  through  or  back,  you  must  not 

linger  here, 

Blocking    the    road    with    all    this 

circus  gear. 

Which  will  you  do,  then:    back  or 

pass  along? 
The  Showman:   Pass. 
The  Soldiers:      Then  away,  and  save  your  breath 

for  song, 

We  cannot  bother  with  your  right 

and  wrong. 

George,  guide  these  waggons  through 

the  western  gate. 

Now,  march,  d'ye  hear?  and  do  not 

stop  to  bait 

This   side   a   mile;     for   that's   the 

order.     March ! 


KINGCOLE  37 


The  Showman  toppled  like  a  broken  arch. 

The  line-squall  roared  upon  them  with  loud  lips. 

A  green-lit  strangeness  followed,  like  eclipse 

They  passed  within,  but,  when  within,  King  Cole 
Slipped  from  the  van  to  head  the  leading  team. 
He  breathed  into  his  flute  his  very  soul, 
A  noise  like  waters  in  a  pebbly  stream, 
And  straight  the  spirits  that  inhabit  dream 
Came  round  him,  and  the  rain-squall  roared  its  last 
And  bright  the  wind-vane  shifted  as  it  passed. 

And  in  the  rush  of  sun  and  glittering  cloud 
That  followed  on  the  storm,  he  led  the  way, 
Fluting  the  sodden  circus  through  the  crowd 
That  trod  the  city  streets  in  holiday. 
And  lo,  a  marvellous  thing,  the  gouted  clay, 
Splashed  on  the  waggons  and  the  horses,  glowed, 
They  shone  like  embers  as  they  trod  the  road. 


38  KINGCOLE 


And  round  the  tired  horses  came  the  Powers 

That  stir  men's  spirits,  waking  or  asleep, 

To  thoughts  like  planets  and  to  acts  like  flowers, 

Out  of  the  inner  wisdom's  beauty  deep: 

These  led  the  horses,  and,  as  marshalled  sheep 

Fronting  a  dog,  in  line,  the  people  stared 

At  those  bright  waggons  led  by  the  bright-haired. 

And,  as  they  marched,  the  spirits  sang,  and  all 

The  horses  crested  to  the  tune  and  stept 

Like  centaurs  to  a  passionate  festival 

With  shining  throats  that  mantling  criniers  swept. 

And  all  the  hearts  of  all  the  watchers  leapt 

To  see  those  horses  passing  and  to  hear 

That  song  that  came  like  blessing  to  the  ear. 

And,  to  the  crowd,  the  circus  artists  seemed 
Splendid,  because  the  while  that  singing  quired 
Each  artist  was  the  part  that  he  had  dreamed 
And  glittered  with  the  Power  he  desired, 
Women  and  men,  no  longer  wet  or  tired 


KINGCOLE  39 


From  long  despair,  now  shone  like  queens  and  kings, 
There  they  were  crowned  with  their  imaginings. 

And  with  them,  walking  by  the  vans,  there  came 
The  wild  things  from  the  woodland  and  the  mead, 
The  red  stag,  with  his  tender-stepping  dame, 
Branched,  and  high-tongued  and  ever  taking  heed. 
Nose-wrinkling  rabbits  nibbling  at  the  weed, 
The  hares  that  box  by  moonlight  on  the  hill, 
The  bright  trout's  death,  the  otter  from  the  mill. 

There,  with  his  mask  made  virtuous,  came  the  fox, 
Talking  of  landscape  while  he  thought  of  meat; 
Blood-loving  weasels,  honey-harrying  brocks, 
Stoats,  and  the  mice  that  build  among  the  wheat, 
Dormice,  and  moles  with  little  hands  for  feet, 
The  water-rat  that  gnaws  the  yellow  flag, 
Toads  from  the  stone  and  merrows  from  the  quag. 

And  over  them  flew  birds  of  every  kind, 
Whose  way,  or  song,  or  speed,  or  beauty  brings 
Delight  and  understanding  to  the  mind; 


40  KING     COLE 


The  bright-eyed,  feathery,  thready-legged  things. 

There  they,  too,  sang  amid  a  rush  of  wings, 

With  sweet,  clear  cries  and  gleams  from  wing  and 

crest, 
Blue,  scarlet,  white,  gold  plume  and  speckled  breast. 

And  all  the  vans  seemed  grown  with  living  leaves 
And  living  flowers,  the  best  September  knows, 
Moist  poppies  scarlet  from  the  Hilcote  sheaves, 
Green-fingered  bine  that  runs  the  barley-rows, 
Pale  candylips,  and  those  intense  blue  blows 
That  trail  the  porches  in  the  autumn  dusk, 
Tempting  the  noiseless  moth  to  tongue  their  musk. 

So,  tired  thus,  so  tended,  and  so  sung, 

They  crossed  the  city  through  the  marvelling  crowd. 

Maids  with  wide  eyes  from  upper  windows  hung, 

The  children  waved  their  toys  and  sang  aloud. 

But  in  his  van  the  beaten  showman  bowed 

His  head  upon  his  hands,  and  wept,  not  knowing 

Aught  of  what  passed  except  that  wind  was  blowing. 


KING     COLE 


All  through  the  town  the  fluting  led  them  on, 
But  near  the  western  gate  King  Cole  retired; 
And,  as  he  ceased,  the  vans  no  longer  shone, 
The  bright  procession  dimmed  like  lamps  expired; 
Again  with  muddy  vans  and  horses  tired, 
And  artists  cross  and  women  out  of  luck, 
The  sodden  circus  plodded  through  the  muck. 

The  crowd  of  following  children  loitered  home; 
Maids  shut  the  windows  lest  more  rain  should  come; 
The  circus  left  the  streets  of  flowers  and  flags, 
King  Cole  walked  with  it,  huddling  in  his  rags. 
They  reached  the  western  gate  and  sought  to  pass. 

"Take  back  this  frowsy  show  to  where  it  was," 
The  sergeant  of  the  gateway-sentry  cried; 
"You  know  quite  well  you  cannot  pass  outside." 

The  Showman:   But  we  were  told  to  pass  here,  by 
the  guard. 


42  KINGCOLE 


The  Sergeant:     Here  are  the  printed  orders  on  the 

card. 

No  traffic,  you  can  read.    Clear  out. 
The  Showman:  But  where? 

The  Sergeant:     Where  you're  not  kicked  from,  or 

there's  room  to  spare. 

Go  back  and  out  of  town  the  way 

you  came. 
The  Showman:  I've  just  been  sent  from  there.     Is 

this  a  game? 
The  Sergeant:     You'll  find  it  none,  my  son,  if  that's 

your  tone. 
The  Showman:  You  redcoats;    ev'n  your  boots  are 

not  your  own. 
The  Sergeant:     No,  they're  the  Queen's;  I  represent 

the  Queen. 
The  Showman:  Pipeclay  your  week's  accounts,  you 

red  marine. 
The  Sergeant:     Thank  you,   I   will.     Now  vanish. 

Right-about. 


KING     COLE  43 


The  Showman:   Right,  kick  the  circus  in  or  kick  it 

out, 

But  kick  us,   kick  us  hard,  we've 

got  no  friends, 

We've  no  Queen's  boots  or  busbies 

on  our  ends; 

We're  poor,  we  like  it,  no  one  cares; 

besides 

These  dirty  artists  ought  to  have 

thick  hides. 

The  dust,  like  us,  is  fit  for  boots  to 

stamp, 

None  but  Queen's  redcoats  are  al- 
lowed to  camp 

In  this  free  country. 
A  Policeman:  What's  the  trouble  here? 

The  Showman:  A  redcoat  dog,  in  need  of  a  thick  ear. 
The  Policeman: The   show   turned  back?    No,   ser- 
geant, let  them  through. 


44  KINGCOLE 


They  can't  turn  back,  because  the 

Prince  is  due. 

Best  let  them  pass. 
The  Sergeant:  Then  pass;  and  read  the  rules 

Another  time. 
The  Showman:  You  fat,  red-coated  fools. 

The  Policeman:  Pass  right  along. 

They  passed.    Beyond  the  town 
A  farmer  gave  them  leave  to  settle  down 
In  a  green  field  beside  the  Oxford  road. 
There  the  spent  horses  ceased  to  drag  the  load; 
The  tent  was  pitched  beneath  a  dropping  sky, 
The  green-striped  tent  with  all  its  gear  awry. 
The  men  drew  close  to  grumble:  in  the  van 
The  showman  parted  from  the  wandering  man. 
The  Showman:  You  see;    denied  a  chance;    denied 

bare  bread. 
King  Cole:  I  know  the  stony  road  that  artists 

tread. 


KINGCOLE  45 


The  Showman:   You  take  it  very  mildly,  if  you  do. 

How   would    you    act   if   this   were 

done  to  you? 
King  Cole:  Go  to  the  Mayor. 

The  Showman:  I  am  not  that  kind, 

I'll   kneel    to   no    Court   prop   with 

painted  rind. 

You   and   your   snivelling   to   them 

may  go  hang. 

I  say:    "God  curse  the  Prince  and 

all  his  gang." 
The  Wife:  Ah,    no,    my    dear,   for  Life  hurts 

everyone, 

Without  our  cursing.    Let  the  poor 

Prince  be; 

We  artist  folk  are  happier  folk  than  he, 

Hard  as  it  is. 
The  Showman:  I  say:  God  let  him  see 

And    taste    and    know    this    misery 

that  he  makes. 


46  KING     CO. LE 


He  strains  a  poor  man's  spirit  till 

it  breaks, 

And   then   he   hangs   him,   while   a 

poor  man's  gift 

He  leaves  unhelped,  to  wither  or  to 

drift. 

Sergeants  at  city  gates  are  all  his 

care. 

We  are  but  outcast  artists  in  despair. 

They  dress  in  scarlet  and  he  gives 

them  gold. 
King  Cole:  Trust  still  to  Life,  the  day  is  not 

yet  old. 
The  Showman:   By  God!  our  lives  are  all  we  have  to 

trust. 
King  Cole:  Life   changes   every   day   and   ever 

must. 
The  Showman:   It   has   not   changed   with   us,   this 

season,  yet. 
King  Cole:  Life  is  as  just  as  Death;  Life  pays 

its  debt. 


KING     COLE  47 


The  Showman:  What  justice  is  there  in  our  suffering 

so? 
King  Cole:         This:    that  not  knowing,  we  should 

try  to  know. 
The  Showman:  Try.    A  sweet  doctrine  for  a  broken 

heart. 
King  Cole:  The  best  (men  say)  in  every  manly 

part. 
The  Showman:   Is  it,  by  Heaven?   I  have  tried  it,  I. 

I  tell  you,  friend,  your  justice  is  a 

lie; 

Your  comfort  is  a  lie,  your  peace  a 

fraud; 

Your  trust  a  folly  and  your  cheer 

a  gaud. 

I  know  what  men  are,  having  gone 

these  roads. 

Poor  bankrupt  devils,  sweating  under 

loads 

While  others  suck  their  blood  and 

smile  and  smile. 


48  KINGCOLE 


You  be   an   artist  on   the  roads   a 

while, 

You'll  know  what  justice  comes  with 

suffering  then. 
King  Cole:  Friend,  I   am  one  grown  old  with 

sorrowing  men. 
The  Showman:-  The  old  are  tamed,  they  have  not 

blood  to  feel. 
King  Cole:  They've  blood  to  hurt,  if  not  enough 

to  heal. 

I  have  seen  sorrow  close  and  suffer- 
ing close. 

I  know  their  ways  with  men,  if  any 

knows. 

I  know  the  harshness  of  the  way 

they  have 

To  loose  the  base  and  prison  up  the 

brave. 

I  know  that  some  have  found  the 

depth  they  trod 


KING    COLE  49 


In  deepest  sorrow  is  the  heart  of  God. 
Up  on  the  bitter  iron  there  is  peace. 

In  the  dark  night  of  prison  comes 

release, 

In  the  black  midnight  still  the  cock 

will  crow. 

There  is  a  help  that  the  abandoned 

know 

Deep  in  the  heart,  that  conquerors 

cannot  feel. 

Abide   in  hope   the   turning  of  the 

wheel, 

The  luck  will  alter  and  the  star  will 

rise. 

His  presence  seemed  to  change  before  their  eyes. 
The  old,  bent,  ragged,  glittering,  wandering  fellow, 
With  thready  blood-streaks  in  the  rided  yellow 
Of  cheek  and  eye,  seemed  changed  to  one  who  held 
Earth  and  the  spirit  like  a  king  of  eld. 


50  KINGCOLE 


He  spoke  again:    "You  have  been  kind/'  said  he. 
"In  your  own  trouble  you  have  thought  of  me. 
God  will  repay.    To  him  who  gives  is  given, 
Corn,  water,  wine,  the  world,  the  starry  heaven." 

Then,  like  a  poor  old  man,  he  took  his  way 
Back  to  the  city,  while  the  showman  gazed 
After  his  figure  like  a  man  amazed. 

The  Wife:  I  think  that  traveller  was  an  angel 

sent. 
The  Showman:  A    most    strange    man.      I    wonder 

what  he  meant. 
The  Wife:  Comfort  was  what  he  meant,  in  our 

distress. 
The  Showman:  No  words  of  his  can  make  our  trouble 

less. 
The  Wife:  O,  Will,  he  made  me  feel  the  luck 

would  change. 

Look    at    him,    husband;     there    is 

something  strange 


KINGCOLE  51 


About  him  there;  a  robin  redbreast 

comes 

Hopping  about  his  feet  as  though  for 

crumbs, 

And  little  long-tailed  tits  and  wrens 

that  sing 

Perching  upon  him. 
The  Showman:  What  a  wondrous  thing! 

I've  read  of  such,  but  never  seen  it. 
The  Wife:  Look, 

These  were  the  dishes  and  the  food 

he  took. 
The  Showman:  Yes;   those  were  they.    What  of  it? 
The  Wife:  Did  he  eat? 

The  Showman:  Yes;    bread  and  cheese;    he  would 

not  touch  the  meat 
The  Wife:  But  see,   the  cheese  is  whole,  the 

loaf  unbroken, 

And    both    are     fresh.      And   see, 

another  token: — 


52  KINGCOLE 


Those  hard  green   apples   that  the 

farmer  gave 

Have  grown   to  these  gold  globes, 

like  Blenheims  brave; 

And  look,   how  came   these  plums 

of  Pershore  here? 
The  Showman:  We  have  been  sitting  with  a  saint, 

my  dear. 
The  Wife.  Look  at  the  butterflies! 

Like  floating  flowers 
Came  butterflies,  the  souls  of  summer  hours, 
Fluttering  about  the  van;  Red  Admirals  rich, 
Scarlet  and  pale  on  breathing  speeds  of  pitch, 
Brimstones,  like  yellow  poppy  petals  blown, 
Brown  ox-eyed  Peacocks  in  their  purpled  roan, 
Blue,  silvered  things  that  haunt  the  grassy  chalk, 
Green   Hairstreaks   bright   as   green   shoots   on    a 

stalk, 
And  that  dark  prince,  the  oakwood  haunting  thing 
Dyed  with  blue  burnish  like  the  mallard's  wing. 


KING    COLE  53 


"He  was  a  saint  of  God,"  the  showman  cried. 

Meanwhile,  within  the  town,  from  man  to  man 
The  talk  about  the  wondrous  circus  ran. 
All  were  agreed,  that  nothing  ever  known 
Had  thrilled  so  tense  the  marrow  in  their  bone. 
All  were  agreed,  that  sights  so  beautiful 
Made  the  Queen's  court  with  all  its  soldiers  dull, 
Made  all  the  red-wrapped  masts  and  papered  strings 
Seem  fruit  of  death,  not  lovely  living  things. 
And  some  said  loudly  that  though  time  were  short, 
Men  still  might  hire  the  circus  for  the  Court. 
And  some,  agreeing,  sought  the  Mayor's  hall, 
To  press  petition  for  the  show's  recall. 

But  as  they  neared  the  hall,  behold,  there  came 
A  stranger  to  them  dressed  as  though  in  flame; 
An  old,  thin,  grinning  glitterer,  decked  with  green, 
With  thready  blood-streaks  in  his  visage  lean, 
And  at  his  wrinkled  eyes  a  look  of  mirth 
Not  common  among  men  who  walk  the  earth; 


54  KING     COLE 

Yet  from  his  pocket  poked  a  flute  of  wood, 
And  little  birds  were  following  him  for  food, 

"Sirs,"  said  King  Cole  (for  it  was  he),  "I  know 
You  seek  the  Mayor,  but  you  need  not  so; 
I  have  this  moment  spoken  with  his  grace. 
He  grants  the  circus  warrant  to  take  place 
Within  the  city,  should  the  Prince  see  fit 
To  watch  such  pastime;  here  is  his  permit. 
I  go  this  instant  to  the  Prince  to  learn 
His  wish  herein:  wait  here  till  I  return." 

They  waited  while  the  old  man  passed  the  sentry 
Beside  the  door,  and  vanished  through  the  entry. 
They  thought,   "This  old  man  shining  like  New 

Spain, 
Must  be  the  Prince's  lordly  chamberlain. 
His  cloth  of  gold  so  shone,  it  seemed  to  burn; 
Wait  till  he  comes."    They  stayed  for  his  return. 

Meanwhile,  above,  the  Prince  stood  still  to  bide 
The  nightly  mercy  of  the  eventide, 


KING     COLE  55 


Brought   nearer   by   each   hour    that   chimed    and 

ceased. 
His  head  was  weary  with  the  city  feast 
But  newly  risen  from.    He  stood  alone 
As  heavy  as  the  day's  foundation  stone. 

The  room  he  stood  in  was  an  ancient  hall. 

Portraits  of  long  dead  men  were  on  the  wall. 

From  the  dull  crimson  of  their  robes  there  stared 

Passionless  eyes,  long  dead,  that  judged  and  glared. 

Above  them  were  the  oaken  corbels  set, 

Of  angels  reaching  hands  that  never  met, 

Where  in  the  spring  the  swallows  came  to  build. 

It  was  the  meeting  chamber  of  the  Guild. 

From  where  he  stood,  the  Prince  could  see  a  yard 
Paved  with  old  slabs  and  cobbles  cracked  and  scarred 
Where  weeds  had  pushed,  and  tiles  and  broken  glass 
Had  fallen  and  been  trodden  in  the  grass. 
A  gutter  dripped  upon  it  from  the  rain. 

"It  puts  a  crown  of  lead  upon  my  brain 


$6  KING     COLE 


To  live  this  life  of  princes,"  thought  the  Prince. 

"To  be  a  king  is  to  be  like  a  quince, 

Bitter  himself,  yet  flavour  to  the  rest. 

To  be  a  cat  among  the  hay  were  best; 

There  in  the  upper  darkness  of  the  loft, 

With  green  eyes  bright,  soft-lying,  purring  soft, 

Hearing  the  rain  without;  not  forced,  as  I, 

To  lay  foundation  stones  until  I  die, 

Or  sign  State-papers  till  my  hand  is  sick. 

The  man  who  plaits  straw  crowns  upon  a  rick 

Is  happier  in  his  crown  than  I  the  King. 

And  yet,  this  day,  a  very  marvellous  thing 

Came  by  me  as  I  walked  the  chamber  here. 

Once  in  my  childhood,  in  my  seventh  year, 

I  saw  them  come,  and  now  they  have  returned, 

Those  strangers,  riding  upon  cars  that  burned, 

Or  seemed  to  burn,  with  gold,  while  music  thrilled, 

Then  beauty  following  till  my  heart  was  filled, 

And  life  seemed  peopled  from  eternity. 

They  brought  down  Beauty  and  Wisdom  from  the  sky 


KING    COLE  57 


Into  the  streets,  those  strangers;  I  could  see 

Beauty  and  wisdom  looking  up  at  me 

As  then,  in  childhood,  as  they  passed  below. 

Men  would  not  let  me  know  them  long  ago, 
Those  strangers  bringing  joy.     They  will  not  now. 
I  am  a  prince  with  gold  about  my  brow; 
Duty,  not  joy,  is  all  a  prince's  share. 

And  yet,  those  strangers  from  I  know  not  where, 
From  glittering  lands,  from  unknown  cities  far 
Beyond  the  sea-plunge  of  the  evening  star, 
Would  give  me  life,  which  princedom  cannot  give. 
They  would  be  revelation:  I  should  live. 
I  may  not  deal  with  wisdom,  being  a  king." 

There  came  a  noise  of  someone  entering; 
He  turned  his  weary  head  to  see  who  came. 

It  was  King  Cole,  arrayed  as  though  in  flame, 
Like  a  white  opal,  glowing  from  within, 
He  entered  there  in  snowy  cramoisin. 


5J_ 


KING     COLE 


The  Prince  mistook  him  for  a  city  lord, 
He  turned  to  him  and  waited  for  his  word. 

"Sir,"  said  King  Cole,  "I  come  to  bring  you  news. 

Sir,  in  the  weary  life  that  princes  use 

There  is  scant  time  for  any  prince  or  king 

To  taste  delights  that  artists  have  and  bring. 

But  here,  to-night,  no  other  duty  calls, 

And  circus  artists  are  without  the  walls. 

Will  you  not  see  them,  sir?" 


The  Prince:        Who    are    these    artists;     do    they 

paint  or  write? 
King  Cole:  No,  but  they  serve  the  arts  and  love 

delight. 
The  Prince:        What  can  they  do  ? 
King  Cole:  They  know  full  many  a  rite 

That  holds  the  watcher  spell-bound, 

and  they  know 

Gay  plays  of  ghosts  and  jokes  of 

long  ago; 


KING     COLE 59 


And  beauty  of  bright  speed  their 
horses  bring, 

Ridden  barebacked  at  gallop  round 
the  ring 

By  girls  who  stand  upon  the  racing 
team. 

Jugglers   they  have,  of  whom   the 
children  dream, 

Who  pluck  live  rabbits  from  between 
their  lips 

And  balance  marbles  on  their  finger- 
tips. 

Will  you  not  see  them,  sir?    And 
then,  they  dance. 

"Ay,"  said  the  Prince,  "and  thankful  for  the  chance. 
So  thankful,  that  these  bags  of  gold  shall  buy 
Leave  for  all  comers  to  be  glad  as  I. 

And  yet,  I  know  not  if  the  Court  permits. 
King's  pleasures  must  be  sifted  through  the  wits 


6o 


KING     COLE 


Or  want  of  wit  of  many  a  courtly  brain. 
I  get  the  lees  and  chokings  of  the  drain, 
Not  the  bright  rippling  that  I  perish  for." 


King  Cole:  Sir,  I  will  open  the  forbidden  door, 

Which,  opened,  they  will  enter  all 

in  haste. 

The   life  of  man   is   stronger   than 

good  taste. 
The  Prince:        Custom  is  stronger  than  the  life  of 

man. 
King  Cole:  Custom  is  but  a  way  that  life  began. 

The  Prince:        A  withering  way   that   makes   the 

leafage  fall, 

Custom,  like  Winter,  is  the  King  of 

all. 
King  Cole:  Winter  makes  water  solid,  yet  the 

spring, 

That  is  but  flowers,  is  a  stronger 

thing. 


KINGCOLE  6 1 


Custom,    the    ass    man    rides,    will 
plod  for  years, 
'      But  laughter  kills  him  and  he  dies 
at  tears. 

One  word  of  love,  one  spark  from 
beauty's  fire, 
And  custom  is  a  memory;  listen,  sire. 

Then  at  a  window  looking  on  the  street 
He  played  his  flute  like  leaves  or  snowflakes  falling, 
Till  men  and  women,  passing,  thought:  "How  sweet; 
These  notes  are  in  our  hearts  like  flowers  falling." 
And   then,   they   thought,   "An  unknown   voice  is 

calling 
Like  April  calling  to  the  seed  in  earth; 
Madness  is  quickening  deadness  into  birth." 

And  then,  as  in  the  spring  when  first  men  hear, 
Beyond  the  black-twigged  hedge,  the  lambling's  cry 
Coming  across  the  snow,  a  note  of  cheer 
Before  the  storm-cock  tells  that  spring  is  nigh, 
Before  the  first  green  bramble  pushes  shy, 


62  KING     COLE 


And  all  the  blood  leaps  at  the  lambling's  notes, 
The  piping  brought  men's  hearts  into  their  throats. 


Till  all  were  stirred,  however  old  and  grand; 
Generals  bestarred,  old  statesmen,  courtiers  prim 
(Whose  lips  kissed  nothing  but  the  Monarch's  hand), 
Stirred  in  their  courtly  minds  recesses  dim, 
The  sap  of  life  stirred  in  the  dreary  limb. 
The  old  eyes  brightened  o'er  the  pouncet-box, 
Remembering    loves,    and    brawls,    and    mains    of 
cocks. 


And  through  the  town  the  liquid  piping's  gladness 
Thrilled  on  its  way,  rejoicing  all  who  heard, 
To  thrust  aside  their  dullness  or  their  sadness 
And  follow  blithely  as  the  fluting  stirred 
They  hurried  to  the  guild  like  horses  spurred. 
There  in  the  road  they  mustered  to  await, 
They  knew  not  what,  a  dream,  a  joy,  a  fate. 


KINGCOLE  63 


And  man  to  man  in  exaltation  cried: 
"Something  has  come  to  make  us  young  again. 
Wisdom  has  come,  and  Beauty,  Wisdom's  bride, 
And  youth  like  flowering  April  after  rain. " 
But  still  the  fluting  piped  and  men  were  fain 
To  sing  and  ring  the  bells,  they  knew  not  why 
Save  that  their  hearts  were  in  an  ecstasy. 

Then  to  the  balcony  above  them  came 
King  Cole  the  shining  in  his  robe  of  flame; 
Behind  him  came  the  Prince,  who  smiled  and  bowed. 
King  Cole  made  silence:  then  addressed  the  crowd. 

"Friends,  fellow  mortals,  bearers  of  the  ghost 

That  burns,  and  breaks  its  lamp,  but  is  not  lost. 

This  day,  for  one  brief  hour,  a  key  is  given 

To  all,  however  poor,  to  enter  heaven. 

The  Bringers  Down  of  Beauty  from  the  stars,  \  ~m00" 

Have  reached  this  city  in  their  golden  cars. 

They  ask,  to  bring  you  beauty,  if  you  will. 


64  KINGCOLE 


You  do  not  answer:  rightly,  you  are  still. 
But  you  will  come,  to  watch  the  image  move 
Of  all  you  dreamed  or  had  the  strength  to  love. 

Come  to  the  Ring,  the  image  of  the  path 
That  this  our  planet  through  the  Heaven  hath; 
Behold  man's  skill,  man's  wisdom,  man's  delight, 
And  woman's  beauty,  imaged  to  the  height. 

Come,  for  our  rulers  come;  and  Death,  whose  feet 

Tread  at  the  door,  permits  a  minute's  sweet; 

To  each  man's  soul  vouchsafes  a  glimpse,  a  gleam, 

A  touch,  a  breath  of  his  intensest  dream. 

Now,  to  that  glimpse,  that  moment,  come  with  me; 

Our  rulers  come. 

O  brother  let  there  be 
Such  welcome  to  our  Prince  as  never  was. 
Let  there  be  flowers  under  foot,  not  grass, 
Flowers  and  scented  rushes  and  the  sprays 
Of  purple  bramble  reddening  into  blaze. 
Let  there  be  bells  rung  backward  till  the  tune 


KING     COLE  65 


Be  as  the  joy  of  all  the  bees  in  June. 

Let  float  your  flags,  and  let  your  lanterns  rise 

Like  fruit  upon  the  trees  in  Paradise, 

In  many-coloured  lights  as  rich  as  Rome 

O'er  road  and  tent;  and  let  the  children  come, 

It  is  their  world,  these  Beauty  Dwellers  bring." 

Then,  like  the  song  of  all  the  birds  of  spring 
He  played  his  flute,  and  all  who  heard  it  cried, 
"Strew  flowers  before  our  rulers  to  the  Ring." 
The  courtiers  hurried  for  their  coats  of  pride 
The  upturned  faces  in  that  market  wide 
Glowed  in  the  sunset  to  a  beauty  grave 
Such  as  the  faces  of  immortals  have. 

And  work  was  laid  aside  on  desk  and  bench, 
The  red-lined  ledger  summed  no  penny  more, 
From  lamp-blacked  fingers  the  mechanic's  wrench 
Dropped  to  the  kinking  wheel  chains  on  the  floor, 
The  farmer  shut  the  hen  roost:  at  the  store 


66  KING     COLE 


The  boys  put  up  the  shutters  and  ran  hooting 
Wild  with  delight  in  freedom  to  the  fluting. 

And  now  the  fluting  led  that  gathered  tide 

Of  men  and  women  forward  through  the  town, 

And  flowers  seemed  to  fall  from  every  side, 

White  starry  blossoms  such  as  brooks  bow  down, 

White  petals  clinging  in  the  hair  and  gown; 

And  those  who  marched  there  thought  that  starry 

flowers 
Grew  at   their  sides,   as   though   the   streets  were 

bowers. 

And  all,  in  marching,  thought,  "We  go  to  see 

Life,  not  the  daily  coil,  but  as  it  is 

Lived  in  its  beauty  in  eternity, 

Above  base  aim,  beyond  our  miseries; 

Life  that  is  speed  and  colour  and  bright  bliss, 

And  beauty  seen  and  strained  for,  and  possest 

Even  as  a  star  forever  in  the  breast." 


KINGCOLE  67 


The  fluting  led  them  through  the  western  gate, 
From  many  a  tossing  torch  their  faces  glowed, 
Bright-eyed  and  ruddy- featured  and  elate; 
They  sang  and  scattered  flowers  upon  the  road, 
Still  in  their  hair  the  starry  blossoms  snowed; 
They  saw  ahead  the  green-striped  tent,  their  mark, 
Lit  now  and  busy  in  the  gathering  dark. 

There  at  the  vans  and  in  the  green-striped  tent 
The  circus  artists  growled  their  discontent. 
Close  to  the  gate  a  lighted  van  there  was; 
The  showman's  wife  thrust  back  its  window  glass. 
And  leaned  her  head  without  to  see  who  came 
To  buy  a  ticket  for  the  evening's  game. 

A  roll  of  tickets  and  a  plate  of  pence 

(For  change)  lay  by  her  as  she  leaned  from  thence. 

She  heard  the  crowd  afar,  but  in  her  thought 

She  said:  "That's  in  the  city;  it  is  nought. 

They  glorify  the  Queen." 


68  KINGCOLE 


Though  sick  at  heart 
She  wore  her  spangles  for  her  evening's  part, 
To  dance  upon  the  barebacked  horse  and  sing. 
Green  velvet  was  her  dress,  with  tinselling. 
Her  sad,  worn  face  had  all  the  nobleness 
That  lovely  spirits  gather  from  distress. 

"No  one  to-nigh t,"  she  thought,  "no  one  to-night." 

Within  the  tent,  a  flare  gave  blowing  light. 
There,  in  their  scarlet  cart,  the  bandsmen  tuned 
Bugles  that  whinnied,  flageolets  that  crooned 
And  strings  that  whined  and  grunted. 

Near  the  band 
Piebald  and  magpie  horses  stood  at  hand 
Nosing  at  grass  beneath  the  green-striped  dome 
While  men  caressed  them  with  the  curry-comb. 

The  clowns,  with  whited,  raddled  faces,  heaped 
Old  horse  cloths  round  them  to  the  chins;  they  peeped 


KING     COLE  69 


Above  the  rugs;  their  cigarette  ends'  light 
Showing  black  eyes,  and  scarlet  smears  and  white. 

They  watched  the  empty  benches,  and  the  wry 
Green  curtain  door  which  no  one  entered  by. 

Two  little  children  entered  and  sat  still 
With  bright  wide-opened  eyes  that  stared  their  fill, 
And  red  lips  round  in  wonder  smeared  with  tints 
From  hands  and  handkerchiefs  and  peppermints. 

A  farm  lad  entered.  That  was  all  the  house. 

"Strike  up  the  band  to  give  the  folk  a  rouse," 
The  showman  said,  "They  must  be  all  outside." 
He  said  it  boldly,  though  he  knew  he  lied. 

Sad  as  a  funeral  march  for  pleasure  gone 
The  band  lamented  out,  "He's  got  them  on." 
Then  paused,  as  usual,  for  the  crowd  to  come. 


70  KINGCOLE 


Nobody  came,  though  from  without  a  hum 
Of  instruments  and  singing  slowly  rose. 
"Free  feast,  with  fireworks  and  public  shows," 
The  bandsmen  growled,  "An  empty  house  again. 
Two  children  and  a  ploughboy  and  the  rain. 
And  then  a  night  march  through  the  mud,"  they 
said. 

Now  to  the  gate,  King  Cole  his  piping  played. 
The  showman's  wife  from  out  her  window  peering 
Saw,  in  the  road,  a  crowd  with  lanterns  nearing, 
And,  just  below  her  perch,  a  man  who  shone 
As  though  white  flame  were  his  caparison; 
One  upon  whom  the  great-eyed  hawk-moths  tense 
Settled  with  feathery  feet  and  quivering  sense, 
Till   the  white,  gleaming  robe  seemed  stuck  with 
eyes. 

It  was  the  grinning  glitterer,  white  and  wise, 
King  Cole,  who  said,  "Madam,  the  Court  is  here, 


KING     COLE  71 


The  Court,  the  Prince,  the  Queen,  all  drawing  near, 
We  here,  the  vanguard,  set  them  on  their  way. 
They  come  intent  to  see  your  circus  play. 
They  ask  that  all  who  wish  may  enter  free, 
And  in  their  princely  hope  that  this  may  be 
They  send  you  these  plump  bags  of  minted  gold." 
He  gave  a  sack  that  she  could  scarcely  hold. 
She  dropped  it  trembling,  muttering  thanks,  and 

then 
She  cried:  "O  master,  I  must  tell  the  men." 

She  rushed  out  of  her  van:  she  reached  the  Ring; 
Called  to  her  husband,  "Will,  the  Queen  and  King, 
Here  at  the  very  gate  to  see  the  show!" 

"Light  some  more  flares,"  said  Will,  "to  make  a 

glow. 
'God  save   the  Queen,'   there,   bandsmen;  lively, 

boys. 
Come  on,  'God  save  our  gracious';  make  a  noise. 


72 


KING     COLE 


Here,  John,  bring  on  the  piebalds  to  the  centre, 
We'll  have  the  horses  kneeling  as  they  enter." 
All  sang,  and  rushed.  Without,  the  trumpets  blared. 

Now  children,  carrying  paper  lanterns,  made 
A  glowing  alley  to  the  circus  door; 
Then  others  scattered  flowers  to  pave  a  floor, 
Along  the  highway  leading  from  the  town. 


Rust-spotted  bracken  green  they  scattered  down, 
Blue  cornflowers  and  withering  poppies  red, 
Gold  charlock,  thrift,  the  purple  hardihead, 


KINGCOLE  73 


Harebells,  the  milfoil  white,  September  clover, 
And  boughs  that  berry  red  when  summer's  over, 
All  autumn  flowers,  with  yellow  ears  of  wheat. 


Then  with  bruised,  burning  gums  that  made  all 

sweet, 
Came  censer-bearing  pages,  and  then  came 
Bearers  in  white  with  cressets  full  of  flame, 
Whose  red  tongues  made  the  shadows  dance  like 

devils. 
Then  the  blithe  flutes  that  pipe  men  to  the  revels 
Thrilled  to  the  marrow  softly  as  men  marched. 
Then,  tossing  leopard-skins  from  crests  that  arched, 
The  horses  of  the  kettle-drummers  stept. 
Then  with  a  glitter  of  bright  steel  there  swept 
The  guard  of  knights,  each  pennon-bearer  bold 
Girt  in  a  crimson  cloak  with  spangs  of  gold. 
Then  came  the  Sword  and  Mace,  and  then  the  four 
Long  silver  trumpets  thrilling  to  the  core 
Of  people's  hearts  their  sound.  Then  two  by  two, 


74  KING     COLE 


Proud  in  caparisons  of  kingly  blue, 
Bitted  with  bars  of  gold,  in  silver  shod, 
Treading  like  kings,  cream-coloured  stallions  trod, 
Dragging  the  carriage  with  the  Prince  and  Queen. 
The  Corporation,  walking,  closed  the  scene. 
i  Then  came  the  crowd  in-surging  like  the  wave 
That  closes  up  the  gash  the  clipper  clave. 

Swift  in  the  path  their  majesties  would  tread 
The  showman  flung  green  baize  and  turkey  red. 
Within  the  tent,  with  bunting,  ropes  and  bags 
They  made  a  Royal  Box  festooned  with  flags. 
Even  as  the  Queen  arrived,  the  work  was  done, 
The  seven  piebald  horses  kneeled  like  one, 
The  bandsmen  blew  their  best,  while,  red  as  beet, 
The  showman  bowed  his  rulers  to  their  seat. 

Then,  through  the  door,  came  courtiers  wigged  and 

starred; 
The  crimson  glitterers  of  the  bodyguard; 
The  ladies  of  the  Court,  broad-browed  and  noble, 


The  Court,  the  Prince,  the  Queen,  all  drawing  near, 
We  here,  the  vanguard,  set  them  on  their  way. 
They  come  intent  to  see  your  circus  play. 


KINGCOLE  77 


Lovely  as  evening  stars  o'er  seas  in  trouble; 
The  aldermen,  in  furs,  with  golden  chains, 
Old  cottagers  in  smocks  from  country  lanes, 
Shepherds  half  dumb  from  silence  on  the  down, 
And  merchants  with  their  households  from  the  town, 
And,  in  the  front,  two  rows  of  eager-hearted 
Children  with  shining  eyes  and  red  lips  parted. 

Even  as  the  creeping  waves  that  brim  the  pool 
One  following  other  filled  the  circus  full. 

The  showman  stood  beside  his  trembling  wife. 

"Never,"  he  said,  "in  all  our  travelling  life 

Has  this  old  tent  looked  thus,  the  front  seats  full 

With  happy  little  children  beautiful. 

Then  all  this  glorious  Court,  tier  after  tier! 

O  would  our  son,  the  wanderer,  were  here, 

Then  we'd  die  happy!" 

"Would  he  were!"  said  she. 
"It  was  my  preaching  forced  him  to  be  free," 
The  showman  said. 


78  KING    COLE 


"Ah,  no,"  his  wife  replied, 
"The  great  world's  glory  and  the  young  blood's 

pride, 
Those  forced  him  from  us,  never  you,  my  dear." 

"I  would  be  different  if  we  had  him  here 
Again,"  the  showman  said;  "but  we  must  start. 
But  all  this  splendour  takes  away  my  heart, 
I  am  not  used  to  playing  to  the  King." 

"Look,"  said  his  wife,  "the  stranger,  in  the  Ring." 

There  in  the  Ring,  indeed,  the  stranger  stood, 
King  Cole,  the  shining,  with  his  flute  of  wood, 
Waiting  until  the  chattering  Court  was  stilled. 

Then  from  his  wooden  flute  his  piping  thrilled, 
Then  all  was  tense,  and  then  the  leaping  fluting 
Clamoured  as  flowering  clamours  for  the  fruiting. 


KING     COLE  79 


And  round  the  ring  came  Dodo,  the  brown  mare, 
Pied  like  a  tiger-moth;  her  bright  shoes  tare 
The  scattered  petals,  while  the  clown  came  after 
Like  life,  a  beauty  chased  by  tragic  laughter. 
The  showman  entered  in  and  cracked  his  whip. 

Then  followed  fun  and  skill  and  horsemanship, 
Marvellous  all,  for  all  were  at  their  best. 
Never  had  playing  gone  with  such  a  zest 
To  those  good  jesters;  never  had  the  tent 
So  swiftly  answered  to  their  merriment 
With  cheers,  the  artist's  help,  the  actor's  life. 
Then,  at  the  end,  the  showman  and  his  wife 
Stood  at  the  entrance  listening  to  the  cheers. 
They  were  both  happy  to  the  brink  of  tears. 

King  Cole  came  close  and  whispered  in  their  ears: 
"There  is  a  soldier  here  who  says  he  knew 
You,  long  ago,  and  asks  to  speak  to  you. 
A  sergeant  in  the  guard,  a  handsome  blade." 


80  KINGCOLE 


" Mother !"  the  sergeant  said.    "What,  Jack!'1  she 

said, 
"Our  son  come  back!  look,  father,  here's  our  son!" 

"Bad  pennies  do  come  home  to  everyone," 

The  sergeant  said.   "And  if  you'll  have  me  home, 

And  both  forgive  me,  I'll  be  glad  to  come." 

"Why,  son,"   the  showman   said,   "the   fault  was 
ours." 

Now  a  bright  herald  trod  across  the  flowers 

To  bid  the  artists  to  the  Queen  and  King, 

Who  thanked  them  for  the  joyful  evening, 

And  shook  each  artist's  hand  with  words  of  praise. 

"Our  happiest  hour,"  they  said,  "for  many  days. 

You  must  perform  at  Court  at  Christmas  tide." 

They  left  their  box:  men  flung  the  curtains  wide, 
The  horses  kneeled  like  one  as  they  withdrew. 


And  round  the  ring  came  Dodo,  the  brown  mare, 
Pied  like  a  tiger-moth;  her  bright  shoes  tare 
The  scattered  petals,  while  the  clown  came  after 
Like  life,  a  beauty  chased  by  tragic  laughter. 


KING     COLE  83 


They    reached    the    curtained    door    and    loitered 

through. 
The  audience,  standing,  sang  "God  save  the  Queen." 
The  hour  of  the  showman's  life  had  been. 

Now  once  again  a  herald  crossed  the  green 
To  tell  the  showman  that  a  feast  was  laid, 
A  supper  for  the  artists  who  had  played 
By  the  Queen's  order,  in  a  tent  without. 

In  the  bright  moonlight  at  the  gate  the  rout 
Of  courtiers,  formed  procession  to  be  gone, 
Orders  were  called,  steel  clinked,  and  jewels  shone, 
The  watchers  climbed   the  banks  and  took  their 
stands. 

The  circus  artists  shook  each  others'  hands, 
Their  quarrels  were  forgotten  and  forgiven, 
Old  friendships  were  restored  and  sinners  shriven. 
"We  find  we  cannot  part  from  Will,"  they  said. 


84  KING    COLE 


And  while  they  talked  the  juggler  took  the  maid 
Molly,  the  singer,  to  the  hawthorn  glade 
Behind  the  green-striped  tent,  and  told  his  love, 
A  wild  delight,  beyond  her  hope,  enough 
Beyond  her  dream  to  brim  her  eyes  with  tears. 

Now  came  a  ringing  cry  to  march;  and  cheers 
Rose  from  the  crowd;  the  bright  procession  fared 
Back  to  the  city  while  the  trumpets  blared. 

So  the  night  ended,  and  the  Court  retired. 
Back  to  the  town  the  swaying  torches  reeked, 
Within  the'green-striped  tent  the  lights  expired, 
The  dew  dript  from  the  canvas  where  it  leaked. 
Dark,  in  the  showman's  van,  a  cricket  creaked, 
But,  near  the  waggons,  fire  was  glowing  red 
On  happy  faces  where  the  feast  was  spread. 

Gladly  they  supped,  those  artists  of  the  show; 
Then  by  the  perfect  moon,  together  timed, 


KING     COLE  85 


They  struck  the  green-striped  tent  and  laid  it  low, 
Even  as  the  quarter  before  midnight  chimed. 
Then  putting-to  the  piebald  nags,  they  climbed 
Into  their  vans  and  slowly  stole  away 
Along  Blown  Hilcote  on  the  Icknield  Way. 

And  as  the  rumbling  of  the  waggons  died 
By  Aston  Tirrold  and  the  Moretons  twain, 
With  axle-clatter  in  the  countryside, 
Lit  by  the  moon  and  fragrant  from  the  rain, 
King  Cole  moved  softly  in  the  Ring  again, 
Where  now  the  owls  and  he  were  left  alone: 
The  night  was  loud  with  water  upon  stone. 

He  watched  the  night;  then  taking  up  his  flute, 

He  breathed  a  piping  of  this  life  of  ours, 

The  half-seen  prize,  the  difficult  pursuit, 

The  passionate  lusts  that  shut  us  in  their  towers, 

The  love  that  helps  us  on,  the  fear  that  lowers, 

The  pride  that  makes  us  and  the  pride  that  mars, 

The  beauty  and  the  truth  that  are  our  stars. 


86  KINGCOLE 


And  man,  the  marvellous  thing,  that  in  the  dark 
Works  with  his  little  strength  to  make  a  light, 
His  wit  that  strikes,  his  hope  that  tends,  a  spark, 
His  sorrow  of  soul  in  toil,  that  brings  delight, 
His   friends,  who  make  salt  sweet  and  blackness 

bright, 
His  birth  and  growth  and  change;  and  death  the 

wise, 
His  peace,  that  puts  a  hand  upon  his  eyes. 

All  these  his  pipings  breathed  of,  until  twelve 

Struck  on  the  belfry  tower  with  tremblings  numb 

(Such  as  will  shudder  in  the  axe's  helve 

When  the  head  strikes)   to  tell  his  hour  was  come. 

Out  of  the  living  world  of  Christendom 

He  dimmed  like  mist  till  one  could  scarcely  note 

The  robins  nestling  to  his  old  grey  coat. 

Dimmer  he  grew,  yet  still  a  glimmering  stayed 
Like  light  on  cobwebs,  but  it  dimmed  and  died. 
Then  there  was  naught  but  moonlight  in  the  glade, 


KING     COLE  87 


Moonlight  and  water  and  an  owl  that  cried. 
Far  overhead  a  rush  of  birds'  wings  sighed, 
From  migrants  going  south  until  the  spring. 
The  night  seemed  fanned  by  an  immortal  wing. 

But  where  the  juggler  trudged  beside  his  love 

Each  felt  a  touching  from  beyond  our  ken, 

From   that  bright  kingdom  where   the  souls  who 

strove, 
Live  now  forever,  helping  living  men. 
And  as  they  kissed  each  other;  even  then 
Their  brows  seemed  blessed,  as  though  a  hand  unseen 
Had  crowned  their  loves  with  never-withering  green. 


1     /    >   **r  *—    LA  ^j 


V 


v? 


.^ 


s/AT 


^ 


^ 


"V 


■V- 


^ 


